


The Right Hand

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Mentions of canon typical violence, No Eurus Holmes, No Smut, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: At the age of eight, Sherlock asked Mycroft to marry him. Mycroft said it couldn't be but accepted the ring to wear it on his right ring finger.Twenty-seven years later, they are as estranged as they can get.And then, after a violent incident, Mycroft comes to Baker Street.





	The Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ducks All in a Row](https://archiveofourown.org/works/342772) by [kirstenlouise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirstenlouise/pseuds/kirstenlouise). 



> A few months ago I read this fantastic story, "Ducks All in a Row", and it touched me so much that I felt the need to write a short follow-up. It can't live up to the original of course but it wanted to be written. We all know what happened to Mycroft and Sherlock - they needed a happy ending.
> 
> Sorry for a totally sentimental story. Mycroft would be appalled :)

Sherlock sighed. He knew the steps…

_Not now. I can't do this now…_

“Good evening. Sherlock, Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock didn’t turn around but continued to stare at the window. Not that there was anything to see. It was dark and all he could see was the faint mirror image of his living room. Still better than looking at _him_.

“Um, hi, Mycroft. Long time no see.”

“Well, Doctor…”

“John. Please?”

“If you insist.”

John huffed out a laugh. “After all that happened… Guess I should say, 'Thank you'. Didn’t have the chance so far. Without you… Well, you know it.”

“No problem,” Mycroft snarled, sounding as cool as ever. With just a hint of something else.

Probably just Sherlock's imagination.

Not once had his brother called after this damn case. Sherlock had been captured by Art Longerson, the murderer he had brought into jail by luring him into a trap. But not for long. The police had fucked it up, the judge had had to let him go. And then Sherlock had found himself on the man's huge property, facing punishment of the nastiest sort, getting beaten and kicked around by the man's huge bodyguards.

John had gone to Mycroft. And of course Mycroft had gotten him out. Sneakily, discreetly as it was his habit.

Sherlock had lost his composure, clinging to him, sobbing against his chest, smearing his crisp-white shirt with the blood that poured out of his split eyebrow. John had been there, too, comforting him with patting his hair and his back. And then Mycroft had handed him over into John's arms and had left, of course embarrassed by the pathetic scene, leaving it to John to clean up his snotty,  bloody face. And he had not even asked how Sherlock was doing afterwards.

Stupid. He was so stupid. Had he really thought his brother cared all at once? Why would he after more than twenty years of estrangement?

Why was Mycroft still wearing this fucking ring? Gifted to him by child Sherlock, who had wanted to marry him when he was a man.

_And I still want it with thirty-five._

_And he still doesn’t want me._

After that day, when Mycroft had put the ring onto the ring finger of his right hand – so that nobody could mistake it for a real wedding ring, which Sherlock had understood only much later – things had been like before for a while. They had been close. But little by little, Mycroft had started to avoid any touch except for the odd pat on the back. As if to discourage him. To show him what could never be. And then he had gone to uni and had hardly come home anymore, and with only twenty-two, he had started climbing the latter of power and Sherlock had seen even less of him, and any affection had been gone.

And then he had made an approach again, eight years after his 'proposal'. Heavily drugged, he had stumbled out of a nasty house full of people who were closer do death than to life, Mycroft's arm wrapped around his waist to stabilize him.

 _“I still love you, Mycroft”_ , he had stammered, his tongue as heavy as his heart. _“I want to be together with you!”_

_“Please. It's the drugs talking.”_

How _could_ he have said this, in such a hateful tone above all? After their childhood filled with mutual love? Had it only taken such few years to turn him into a cold, indifferent paper-pusher who never laughed anymore and abhorred any sentiment?

 _“Why don't you care about me anymore?”_ Sherlock had sobbed. Pathetic, to say the least.

_“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”_

After that, Sherlock had avoided him as thoroughly as he could. Tried to get sober just to not force his brother to come looking for him again, always with this exasperated look in his eyes. He had steeled his heart against the pain Mycroft's rejection caused him and he had insulted and mocked and refused him whenever their paths had crossed.

“Um, Sherlock?” he heard his brother's voice now.

Sherlock turned just to glare at him. There he was, in his full, sophistically-clothed glory, all neat hair and groomed eyebrows and superiority. But something was strange about his expression. Just the tiniest flicker.

_Just my imagination. As always. That has always been my problem… Marrying my brother… God, how can anyone be so stupid?_

“Yes, Mycroft?” he said with all the coldness he could muster.

Mycroft flinched. His shields closed. “I have a case for you. You have to…”

“Go away,” Sherlock whispered. He felt like screaming. But he was too sad to scream.

“If you could just…”

He shot a glare at his brother again. “Which of the two words did you not understand?”

Mycroft's hand clamped around his stupid umbrella and then he turned around and left.

Sherlock slumped down in his chair, his heart _bleeding_.

_I need you, brother._

In his mind's eye, he saw himself as the little boy in the silly pyjamas with the wrongly-coloured ducks again. Disappointed by his big brother's refusal of his marriage proposal but still sure they would never lose each other. He saw the boy with the unruly curls and the big, curious eyes and all the faith and he knew he was dead. He had died at the separation and the hurt and the rejection.

“Well then…” John cleared his throat. “Not so good, huh?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. A thought had occurred to him. Something had been odd.

The umbrella. Mycroft's hand had grabbed it hard. His knuckles had turned white. The long fingers of his right hand.

A hand without any jewellery.

Sherlock's stomach pulled together.

He had taken it off.

After all this time, he had taken his ring off.

“Strange, your brother. A bit confused maybe?”

Sherlock slowly turned to his friend. “What do you mean?” he rasped out.

John shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Ah, it's nothing.”

“What?”

“The ring he always used to wear…”

Sherlock closed his eyes. John had noticed it, too.

“Wonder why he's wearing it on his left hand now.”

Sherlock's fingers bored into the armrests. “He's what?”

“Yeah. The wedding ring finger. You don't think he got married, do you?”

And within ten seconds Sherlock was out of the door.

*****

_He must have taken this turn…_

He could have stopped a cab. Obviously Mycroft would go home now. It was past his work hours. He could have taken a cab and be there right after him.

But he couldn’t wait.

_Turn left. Shortcut._

He was running, his pulse racing, his brain shut down except for figuring out which way the limousine would take.

Now they would have reached the one-way-street. They had to…

_Damn…_

His legs were burning.

A car stopped in front of him, in the last moment.

“Hey, you idiot, you can't just run on the street!”

Sherlock ignored the panicked, pissed-off voice.

Running. He had to keep on running. There, this street.

_Yes!_

There it was. Stopping at a red light.

Sherlock opened the door and slipped onto the back seat.

Mycroft gasped next to him. And the driver turned around. “Hey, who… Oh…”

“It's fine,” Mycroft said. “We have to talk about a case.” He gave the driver a shaky smile and fumbled with a button, and a moment later they were hidden from the looks of the driver by black glass.

And as soon as they were alone, Sherlock grabbed for Mycroft's left hand. And yes, there it was – the ring he had given him twenty-seven years ago. Still as shiny as it had always been.

A thought shot through his head – _What if it just got too small for his right ring finger?_ The fingers of the right hand tended to be a little thicker than the ones of the left hand. But one look into Mycroft's eyes told him this wasn't the reason.

“Why?” he whispered, rubbing his brother's shaking fingers.

And he closed his eyes when Mycroft's other hand reached up to stroke his cheek, ever so gently.

“Because I could have lost you. Again. All this blood. My Sherlock… I'm so sorry. I pushed you away because I was afraid. Didn’t want to mess up your life. Thought you would change your mind. And then you seemed to hate me…”

“ _Hate you_ … How could you think that?”

“Well, you gave a rather good impression of hate.”

“Because you didn’t want me…”

“Oh, boy, my sweet boy. I've always wanted you. And I wanted to show you… that I'm yours and if it's not too late, I'll accept your proposal now.”

And then Sherlock's free arm was wrapped around his brother's neck and they kissed - probingly, needy, frantically, passionately, and with every second the layers of hurt and rejection and resentment crumbled and fell, and all that was left was the renewed love of the Holmes brothers, as deep and pure as it had been when Sherlock had been eight years old.


End file.
